


the sum of all our parts

by honey_wheeler



Category: Harry Potter RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-05
Updated: 2011-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-22 05:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn’t get the ice cream van to snag girls. In fact, he thought it might run them off, which gave him pause for a moment. Only for a moment, though, since it’s an ice cream van, for fuck’s sake, and completely wicked. So he’s surprised to find out that it’s something of a draw, and that more birds ask him about the ice cream van than whether he’s single or if Dan and Emma ever hooked up or if it’s true that Ralph is a total dick on-set.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sum of all our parts

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this rumor](http://www.celebwarship.com/wp/?p=2050), and inspired by [this fic](http://femmenerd.livejournal.com/264156.html) and [this picture](http://i15.tinypic.com/6d2h0sh.jpg) of Rupert Grint in his ice cream van.

He didn’t get the ice cream van to snag girls. In fact, he thought it might run them off, which gave him pause for a moment. Only for a moment, though, since it’s an ice cream van, for fuck’s sake, and completely wicked. So he’s surprised to find out that it’s something of a draw, and that more birds ask him about the ice cream van than whether he’s single or if Dan and Emma ever hooked up or if it’s true that Ralph is a total dick on-set.

This one doesn’t look like she cares about Dan and Emma. She looks like she might not even care if he’s single. Her hair is probably a little fake, maybe more blonde than red in reality, but he feels a queer bond with her anyway, a redhead sort of solidarity. She looks older, and like she’s done way more than he’s even fantasized about. When he offers to buy her a drink, she looks at him carefully for a while – so long that he feels his cheeks pink and he kind of wishes he’d just stayed home tonight – before nodding and motioning to the bartender.

“So is it true you have an ice cream van?” she asks after they’ve nursed their drinks without speaking, through one song and halfway into another. He’s surprised, since up till now she’s been acting like she doesn’t know who he is and he figured maybe she really didn’t. Which…not bloody likely unless she's been living under a rock, but he doesn't want to be the kind of bloke who assumes anyone would know all about how famous he is. It seems tacky, really.

“Yeah,” he says. He ducks his head, jabs at his drink with the tiny, ineffectual straw – he’s never understood the point of straws like that. She makes a face like she’s impressed. He’s not sure how to feel about the whole thing. On the one hand, she’s interested enough in him to remember weird facts. On the other hand, it seems like it’s not the best idea to fancy someone who probably reads stories about you on the internet.

It isn’t until later that he finds out she’s had things written about her on the internet too, and not very good things, but he already likes her by then so he doesn’t much care. You can’t help what people say about you, especially when they’re people you don’t even know.

He isn’t aware of that, though, when he’s got his hands braced against the wall on either side of her head in the hallway outside the loo, after everyone’s left and the owner let them stay on because Rupert slipped him a fifty. When her hand works at his belt, her knuckles brushing against him through his trousers. When he dips his head so he can smell her shampoo, sweet and sharp like drugstore perfume, and his nose brushes the delicate skin behind her ear and it makes her shiver.

Someone could take their picture right now and post it online in a heartbeat and he wouldn’t even know until he got an incensed phone call from his mum. Normally he’d care, but right now he just wants her to touch him, all of him, all over, please, just please, and she does.

*****

She likes to ride in the van. He’d have thought she’d be embarrassed to. Hell, sometimes _he’s_ embarrassed to. But she likes going for drives and always asks him to play the music – she calls it the horn, but he thinks you’re supposed to call it a calliope or something like that.

As soon as it starts playing, she cocks her head to the side, as if listening to something far away, and she smiles at him in a way that makes it hard to keep his hands to himself. She probably wouldn’t mind; she didn’t the one time he lost his head and ended up snogging her between the freezers, his thigh pushed up between hers as far as he dared, her hand fisted in the neck of his jumper so hard that it stretched past the point of repair and he had to bin it. He learned the hard way, though, that if you stop an ice cream van on the street with the music playing, kids come running, and that all it took was one brat reporting to his parents that Ron Weasley was doing filthy things to a girl in public to make life difficult.

“Play it again,” she commands, and he does.

*****

“So why’d you get the van, then?” she asks. Late afternoon sunlight filters through her curtains and turns the dust motes hanging in the air over the bed golden. He runs his index finger down the side of her ribcage, over the smooth, white skin. She doesn’t have any freckles, not a single one.

“Dunno,” he shrugs. “Trying to reclaim my lost childhood or something, I reckon.”

“Too busy trying to be a grown-up back then?” she suggests.

“Something like that,” he agrees. “At least according to my therapist.” Her eyebrow raises, a pale comma against the white of her skin.

“You have a therapist?” She smiles a little when she says it, the same way she does when she asks him to play the calliope.

“Sure. Doesn’t everyone nowadays?” She shakes her head and he shrugs. “The studio provides one,” he says by way of explanation. It’s one more thing they don’t have in common, but she doesn’t seem to mind and neither does he.

 

 _  
* title from “Lines On Palms” by Josh Pyke   
_


End file.
